


Bumping Back

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Awesome Sally Donovan, BAMF Molly, BAMF Mummy Holmes, Death is only the beginning, Demonic Possession, Demons, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Ghosts, Halloween, Horror, Magic-Users, Monsters, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Shapeshifting, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Spooky, Succubi & Incubi, Vampire Slayer(s), mary shelley has a lot to answer for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-20 02:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12423543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Meet the things which hide in London's shadows!Discover the horrors that shaped a criminal mastermind- and her brothers!Find out the lengths to which Mummy Holmes will go to finally get grand-babies!And see just how good a boyfriend Sherlock Holmes is when the full moon rises!PRESENTING: BUMPING BACK, twelve  spooky stories for Halloween...





	1. The Angel of The Home

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, originally posted on tumblr.

* * *

**THE ANGEL OF THE HOME**

* * *

"Daddy," Rosie says softly, her Mycroft Penguin cuddled in beside her. "Daddy, why don't you ever talk to The Angel in my room?"

And she cocks her head at John, her expression a mixture of tiredness and curiosity, her eyes wide and guileless. Just visible beneath her bedclothes, her little hand is stroking the Mycroft Penguin's furry left wing, something which she only does when she's nervous or in search of reassurance. "I mean," she adds hesitantly, "Don't you like her?

Because she really seems to like you."

A beat.

"At least I think she does," the child adds, sounding uncertain. "I mean, she's always smiling at you...

So you should really say hello and smile back."

Inwardly John sighs, unsure of what to make of such a question,  _and_  what to tell her. He and Sherlock have always been clear with her that they don't believe in either God or angels, and thus he has no idea where his little daughter might have gotten the notion that one had taken up residence in her room. On the other hand however, John knows Rosie is a clever, precocious child who is constantly surrounded by adults, possibly to her detriment: If she wanted to think that an angel was watching over her- and if it made her feel better- than who was he to take that away?

 _It's not like it's doing her any harm_ , he tells himself.

_And how long will she be innocent enough to believe in this sort of thing, anyway?_

So with a small smile he leans over and presses a kiss to her daughter's forehead. "I think maybe The Angel only wants you to see her, Rosie," he tells her. "I mean, she never appears to me." He shrugs. "If she wanted me to see her then I'm sure I would."

And with that he stands, tucks her bedclothes in around her. Rosie nods, accepting the logic of his answer, and snuggles in closer to her Mycroft Penguin, already resolving to ask The Angel why she won't appear to her Daddy the next time she comes to call. After all, The Angel never speaks, but she's always there when Rosie needs her, and she seems to happy when she looks at Rosie's Daddy... She even writes things on the mirror in the bathroom, things like  _I love you_ and  _I'm here darling_  and _I'll never abandon you_...

* * *

As soon as John closes the door and Rosie closes her eyes, a golden-haired "angel," leans down to kiss her daughter's forehead.

She mouths the words _I love you both, my darlings_ , but her words make no sound in the stillness of that nursery room-

Her presence, however, keeps many shadows from its door.


	2. Belle, Book and Candle

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, originally posted on tumblr.

* * *

**BELLE, BOOK AND CANDLE**

* * *

"Sigur," Alexandra calls to her husband. "Could you be a darling and bring me in the red roses I got from Margo?

I seem to have left them in the Den."

And Alexandra Holmes huffs out a breath, carefully checking the alter before her and satisfying herself that all is well. Counting through the golden candles (one), the red candles (two), then the white ones (three) before carefully lighting one of her incense sticks, smiling to herself in satisfaction as the sweet-smelling smoke wafts through the room...

As she does so the pentacle on the alter flares into life, its carved surface flashing white-gold in the gloom.

She smiles in anticipation as she feels the power about her begin to take form.

Before she can do more, however, she hears her husband's tread and looks around to see him holding out four wild red roses, each picked from their neighbour's garden and still smelling faintly of rain and countryside. When she takes them from him with a smile he presses a kiss to her hair and places something else she'd forgotten- her Summoning Focus- on the alter before tottering off to his copy of Tolkien. "Make sure you don't do anything I wouldn't do," he calls wryly as he shuts the door behind him, earning a small smile from his wife.

"As if there's much that you wouldn't do, you old rogue," she calls after him earning herself a laugh.

Once he's gone Alexandra takes the Summoning Focus- a photo from  _The Guardian_  of her youngest son and his current interest, a young pathologist- and places if at the heart of the pentacle.

She presses her right hand against it and lets a tiny amount of energy flow into the image and thus (she hopes) out into the world.

She's successful: At her nudging the pentacle flares again, its brightness filling the room. Sparks of light flutter about it as she lays the four red roses around it with her left hand, neatly forming a square in which to focus her energy.

_It wouldn't do to let power like hers run wild, after all._

She then plucks a petal from each rose and holds it to the golden candle, letting it smoke for a moment before crushing it and spreading the remains across the photo. To this she adds a mix of ground arabica coffee and nicotine to represent her Will, as well as a smidge of vanilla essence and formaldehyde which she hopes will be enough to conjure Will's sweet young thing. As she does this she whispers the charm she wants, the words as familiar to her as they were to her own mother and even to her children...

There's a flare of light. A whisper, soft as a sigh. The room turns so much more than silent and then every candle in the room goes out.

Alexandra smiles in the dark, well pleased with her efforts...

While miles away in London, her son Sherlock opens his eyes and jerks awake. Looks around wildly in the dark only to heave a sigh of relief as he spies his Molly in the bed beside him. For a moment he stares at her, his heart hammering in his chest, the smell of magic wafting through the room like perfume-

He takes out his phone. Sends a text to his mother.

 _Fine,_  he types.  _Point taken- I'll give her Grandmama's ring tomorrow. Now leave off the Dark Arts, won't you?_

_My pathologist and I are trying to get some sleep._

And with that he turns on his side and cuddles into Molly.

He doesn't get an answer but then he doesn't expect to- The medium is the message when it comes to Mummy, as he well knows.


	3. Sacrifice, Virgin or Otherwise

Disclaimer: This is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read; originally posted on tumblr.

* * *

**SACRIFICE, VIRGIN OR OTHERWISE**

* * *

Sally can smell it, the moment they find the spot.

It's not some Slayer Superpower thing, it's merely that the tender cologne of bile, entrails and bits-that-used-to-be-people which a Grothlok Demon leaves behind is sort of hard to mistake.

_Even if it's wafting out of a boarded-up former abattoir, you're going to notice._

Behind her, she hears Mary Watson draw in a breath, the blond nurse raising her not-at-all-suspiciously-well-maintained firearm and moving stealthily to Sally's side. At the back of the alley, Molly Hooper is waiting, twitching with nervousness and hopping from foot to foot as Mycroft's mysterious Girl Friday keeps the engine warm on Hudder's car.

"This is it," Watson says, and it's not a question.

Sally nods anyway.

"Got our supplies?" she asks, and the blond nods again, gesturing to her inside pocket.

"Good," Sally says. "On my count- One, two, THREE!"

And coiling every not-inconsiderable ounce of supernatural strength she possesses, Sally kicks at the door to the abattoir, knocking it open.

Without missing a beat, Watson reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, knotted purple handkerchief which she tosses into the room as if it were a grenade.

* * *

There's a flash of golden brilliance (artificial sunlight) and a boom of thunder (artificial lightning- you'd be surprised what you can get your hands on when your guvnor's related to the best-known Watcher in England.) And then it's chaos. Battle. Demons coming at her. At Watson.

They're furious that their ceremony's been interrupted and they're determined to make their feelings known.

As Sally and Watson keep them distracted, Molly darts in through the chaos, a Shielding Ring pulsing on her finger, a small plastic bag of Liquid Sunlight swinging tightly in her grip. Every time a demons comes near- and it isn't often- she lashes it at the creature, driving it away from her and into either Sally or Mary's waiting grip.

_Apparently, Sally muses, the Littlest Pathologist is really determined to saver her posh tottie._

With Sally and Mary running offence Hooper manages to get to the alter at the end of the room. Manages to skid right through the salt circle for the sacrifice and dissipate its energies rather than having the Great Whatever It Is the demons were summoning come forth. As soon as she does, the demons' sacrificial victim- one Sherlock Holmes, Esq- opens his eyes and blinks blearily up at her, his brown creased in confusion.

Just to be certain the spell is broken, Molly kisses him softly, touching the bag of Liquid Sunlight to his chest.

Immediately his silvery, sticky bonds come loose.

"Molly..?" he says groggily, trying to sit up. And then, more strongly, "Molly, where's John?"

At the mention of his name- or maybe just the destruction of the Summoning Circle- John Watson lets out a howling string of militarily colourful language, drawing his wife's- and Sally's- gaze up to the ceiling, where he's been strung up.  _Apparently the demons were planning to use his blood as part of the Summoning too._

With a sharp grin- "Told you I'd find him,"- Mary takes off for the stairs at the side of the room, moving steadily across them and from there to her husband's position, setting about cutting him down. By this time most of the Grothloki have scattered, unwilling to face the infamous Sally Donovan and knowing their plan is shot to Hell. And so there's nobody to interfere as Mary helps her husband ascend from his perch, as Molly pulls Sherlock free of the sacrificial alter.

"When I get you back to Baker Street," she's saying, "I'm going to shag you three ways til Sunday.

We'll see then, if those gits think you'll make a suitable virgin bloody sacrifice."

Though Sherlock's cheeks are red as he and John huff towards Hudder's car, Sally can't help but notice he's smiling. He's holding onto to Hooper's hand too, and Sally doesn't think it's simply because he needs help staying upright. As soon as he, Hooper and the Watsons are inside the car, Sally waves the vehicle away and then turns into the night.

 _Her_  hunt has barely started.

Scythe in hand she walks into the darkness and- as they bloody well should do- the things in that darkness  _run._


	4. Treasure

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine, originally posted on tumblr.

* * *

**TREASURE**

* * *

The grownups don't know what's happening, but Eurus does.

Eurus sees the way the Victor Thing looks at her, the way it looks at Sherlock- and Eurus knows  _why._

Because Eurus saw it crawl out of that old wooden box she and Will and Vic found on the beach that day. She saw it wrap around her friend. Slither inside him and gobble him up until there was nothing left. Nothing.

She saw the, the  _Victorness_  leave his eyes and she couldn't help him.

All she could do was listen to him sing that stupid, scary song.

_Oh I that am lost, who will find me?_

_Deep down below the old beech tree?_

Will doesn't notice a thing while it happened, but then Will never does.

* * *

Vic was lovely before that day on the beach, and so Vic was easy to believe when he started plotting against her.

Even Mycroft- hitherto Eurus' source of all that was sensible and clever- was taken in by the Victor Thing's act, and so when Eurus tried to sound the alarm she found herself sternly told not to tell tales. Not to be jealous, that Will still loved her even if he and his friend wanted to spend more time together.

"He's a boy," she was told. "Sometimes boys need to play together."

But The Victor-Thing wasn't playing games, that Eurus did know.

_It was just that nobody would believe her._

* * *

For who would suspect a five year old boy of endangering others? Who would think he was trying to harm his friend?Who would even suspect a child, especially one as sweet-natured as Victor Trevor?

_And yet, Eurus had no doubt he was plotting to hurt her brother._

For he suggested games now, games she knew neither she nor Will were old enough to play. He suggested doing things which might hurt Will (though he hadn't then sense to realise, still being too much of a baby) and when Eurus objected he made up stories about her. Told tales to Mummy and Daddy and Mycroft about how she was bold, and how she was hurting Sherlock, and that made them look at her all sharp-eyed and worried, something she liked not at all.

* * *

She tried to talk to Mummy but it didn't work.

She tried to talk to Uncle Rudy too, but before she could get the words out Mycroft gave her a message from Victor, one meant specially for her.

He and Will were going to play pirates down by the old graveyard, apparently.

He and Will were going to play pirates around by the Manor house's old well.

Eurus felt it go off like a bomb inside her, the realisation of why The Victor Thing would make sure to tell her that, why he would bring little Will down there, and before Uncle Rudy could say anything she was off, out the gate and down the garden path. Careening towards her brother. Careening towards saving him.

It never even occurred to her that she might not be strong enough.

* * *

She found them at the lip of the well, The Victor Thing urging Sherlock to jump in.

"It'll be an adventure!" The Victor Thing told him. "It'll be just like being in a dungeon- But I can rescue you!"

Will was peering at his erstwhile friend, chewing his lip; he clearly didn't like the idea but he didn't want to appear a baby by refusing to do it.

"Come on, Will," The Victor Thing said, "it's not like it'll hurt!"

"It will hurt!" Eurus yelled, coming around the Manor's corner and skidding to a halt, her plaits flying around her, her voice breathless. "If you fall down there you'll break your neck and Mummy will be so cross!

So come down off there, Will," she told him. "Mummy says we're not to play near there and I think she's right."

She reached out, pulled him to her by his little hands.

His lip had the telltale wobble which told her he wanted to cry but was trying to be brave.

"Do you think I shouldn't, Euri?" he asked and she nodded gravely.

"I do," she told him. "Now go back to the house. Tell Mycroft what happened, and where I am- quickly, now. Go!"

And she gestured towards the Manor house; Lips still a tremble, Will nodded and tottered swiftly off.

When he cleared the corner of the garden he broke into a run.

As soon as he was out of sight Eurus let out a breath of relief.

The Victor Thing watched him go, an oddly adult, calculating look on its face. "You know, don't you?" it said, turning casually to look at her. "I might have known a child of the Holmes bloodline would have The Sight."

And he tutted, shaking his head. Climbing up into the place were Will had been kneeling, on the lip of the well. His eyes had turned entirely black, their darkness stark in his chubby, youthful face but though she wanted to say something Eurus found herself riven to the spot.

He's still humming that stupid, stupid song, she thought to herself dimply.

"Oh well," The Victor Thing was saying, smiling and peering down into the well's darkness. "I suppose this will be better in the long run- Nothing lasts forever, as they say."

And before Eurus could do a thing he leaned nonchalantly over, let himself topple into the well. Plummet into darkness.

There's a thump. A splash. Eurus rushes to the well wall and when she looks in she sees The Victor Thing grinning up at her, head and shoulders at an awkward, inhuman angle. Eyes still black as tar.

"Your turn, now," he whispered.

A whisper, a hiss, something caught on the breeze and rustling along the grass, and then-  _Then_

Blackness.

Pain.

She was gobbled up in less than a second.

She looked down to see little Victor Trevor's body slump, the life going out of him, and with slow, gentle deliberateness she turned. Walked away. As she starts down the path towards home, she's humming..

_Oh I that am lost, who will find me?_

_Deep down below the old beech tree?_

* * *

It will be decades before they find Victor's body, decades in which The Eurus Thing will cause havoc and bring pain to millions.

Her song will whisper through the world, whether others are willing to listen for it or not.


	5. The Finder of Lost Children

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read; originally posted on tumblr. 

* * *

**THE FINDER OF LOST CHILDREN**

* * *

_London, 1994_

Mycroft tugs at his waistcoat and squares his shoulders.

The entrance to his quarry's... establishment stands before him, a monuments of dripping water, old stone and Victorian grandiosity.

Behind him he hears the door to Uncle Rudy's car open and before the older man can come over to him he raises a hand, waves him away.

_He knows that he's the one who has to do this._

"Let us run with patience the race that is set before us," he mutters and steps into the sewer.

* * *

The walk is not long- he can see lights ahead- but that doesn't mean it's not dangerous. Things are moving in the shadows, hissing and laughing, calling his name. Imitating the voices of his family. His friends. Peter, who even now has no idea what his boyfriend is doing far beneath the city streets. Mycroft is too wise to give the shadows around him attention- Rudy had briefed him thoroughly- but he still feels the chill of them. The... unnaturalness of them, and all they represent.

Finally though, he makes it to the entrance to the chamber. Halts at the threshold.

As good courtesy and long custom dictate, he bows low from the waist and calls out that he is no danger. That he has come as a guest and will depart as one too.

He receives no answer; It's only as he's straightening up that he sees the creature.

Rudy had warned him but somehow...  _Somehow he hadn't believed the older man until now._

For, as his uncle had promised, a marionette is walking creakingly towards him, its strings trailing lazily across the floor behind. It is about a foot and a half tall, dressed in once-opulent, once-jewelled rags which make up a ballerina's costume. Its feet are carved into spikes so that it must always move  _en pointe._  Its hair is long and white, its eyes hollow and yet it appears to be struggling to breathe. To haul its own weight.

It comes to a halt before him, executes a perfect curtsy, and as he had been warned, Mycroft bows again in return.

"Are you Aurelia?" he asks and the thing preens, cocking its head coquettishly.

It has no mouth in its roughly-carved head and yet a voice clearly comes from within it. "That I am," it says, and it sounds so young. "Are you here to see the Mistress, sir?" Another coquettish turn of the head. "Have you come to bargain?"

Mycroft nods. Tightens his hand on his umbrella and reaches into his inside pocket.

He pulls out the last photo of Sherlock, taken only days before he ran away from school, and shows it to Aurelia. Steels himself.

_This is the part he has been dreading._

"Is he here?" he asks, looking around at the room before him. Row upon row of small glass jars sit on floor-to-ceiling shelves, each one lit from within, each one murmuring in a voice which was once hopeful. A voice which was once human.

The marionette looks at the photo- "He's pretty,"- but shakes her head mournfully.

Something within Mycroft eases and immediately he curses his own foolishness.

"Then by all means," he states, outwardly regaining some of his composure. "I am here to bargain. Let me speak to your Mistress- I'm sure there's a deal to be made."

And he reaches into his suit jacket. Carefully pulls out a tiny speck of bread dipped in honey, milk, and of course, some of his own blood.

_Blood calls for blood, after all._

Aurelia takes it greedily and leads him inside, humming beneath her breath all the while.

* * *

She sits him down on the room's only chair, which is set beside an overflowing workbench, covered with the makings of puppets.

He sees wooden heads. Hands. Little wooden feet, carved to be horribly mutilated.

Aurelia informs him that he's not to touch her brothers and sisters- she gestures to the wood, wire and fabric on the table- before dragging herself off through a side-door. There are wires and strings, tied in knots and nooses.

"I shan't be long," Aurelia says as she hobbles out the door.

Mycroft sits there, fingering the protective amulet in his pocket, trying to ignore the voices whispering all around him. Every so often he thinks he sees something on the table twitch as if to right itself, but whenever he looks straight at it the movement subsides.

Eventually the door through which Aurelia disappeared creaks fully open however, and as he watches two roughly-hewn, life-sized marionettes carry their Mistress into the room, Aurelia at their head.

The Mistress is doll-like. White as a ghost. Wreathed in lace and tattered satin.

Aurelia bows low, announcing Mycroft's name though he certainly hasn't told her it, and then scuttles to the side of the room.

The silence is really rather awkward.

"You've come to bargain?" the Mistress says eventually and he nods. Hands her the photo of Sherlock, though intensely he dislikes the thought of this thing touching his belongings, let alone an image of his brother.

"He;s fourteen," he says quietly as she looks at it. "He's- He's run away from school again, and neither myself nor my family can find him-" At the last moment his throat closes but Mycroft makes himself say it. _He did not come all this way to be a coward now._ "We should like your help in that- In finding him. We should like it very much."

When she doesn't speak he adds the word he'd vowed he wouldn't use, though Rudy had told him such a thing was pointless.

"Please," he says. "Please help me find my brother."

The mistress gives a sharp, mirthless laugh and the three marionettes join in.

The sound raises the hair on Mycroft's arms to goose-flesh but he schools his expression. Says nothing. The Mistress doesn't answer; Instead she clicks her fingers and the two life-sized puppets fold themselves up, side by side. Backs straight, knees bent. Arms held at a painfully ridged-looking angle.

Their Mistress flops her pale, will-o-the-wisp body down onto their laps as if onto a chair and lazes. Preens.

Her blue and green eyes shine like cold fire in her head.

With creeping, careful hesitancy Mycoft stands, Makes his way over to her. He doesn't want to touch her, but he will if he has to.

As a knight might to his queen he kneels. Inclines his head.

Though his flesh is crawling, he holds his hands out for her to take and take them she does.

"And what would you give me, were I to find your brother?" she asks, still gazing at him with that same fiery, cold harshness.

Her skin is papery and cold, the bones easily felt underneath Mycroft's fingers.

He tries to summon his training in diplomacy, so useful, usually, in these sorts of situations. "What would you like?" he asks, trying tentatively for flirtation, but as always he misses it: Both the Mistress and her puppets bark once again with laughter and her grip tightens on his hands painfully when he tries to pull away.

"What is it that you value most?" she asks instead, pulling him closer. Her breath is fetid. "What are you willing to give to get your brother back?"

And she smiles, a tiny, razor-like thing which cuts. Slices. It's on the tip of Mycroft's tongue to answer _anything_ but he knows better; Such an utterance would be lethal in company like this. Instead he lowers his voice and asks- humbly- "might I offer a service to you? A service when next you need it?"

Mycroft knows just what he's offering, just what it might cost him.

Creatures such as this do not forget their debts, or their promises, and he's heard enough about those who have tried to be reluctant about giving his.

But... It's Sherlock.  _Will._  His little brother, who he can't find. His little brother, whom he's failed to protect before. Whom he's failed, over and over, when he left him to Eurus' tender care.

If he has to walk into Hell and drag him kicking and screaming out of there then that is what he'll do- A London sewer should be nothing to him.

 _It is nothing to him_ , he thinks fiercely.

The Mistress stares at him with those white-blue eyes and nods. "Very well, a favour shall be granted, and a favour returned to me." Another slit-like smile. "In time."

* * *

An hour later he walks out of the sewer and into Rudy's car.

It's only when he gets the car door closed that he allows his hands to start shaking.

"What did she ask for?" Rudy asks quietly, his head tilted in to his nephew so their driver cannot hear him.

Mycroft doesn't answer; rather he takes out the brick of a mobile phone the Home Office gave him and sends a text to Anthea.

 _I need you to find an Irish national named James Paul Moriarty_ , he types out to her.  _Priority Gold- My eyes only._

* * *

Three days later his parents find Sherlock unconscious on their doorstep and though Mycroft knows he should be ashamed of the deal he's made- Somehow he's not.

 


	6. Wolfheart

Disclaimer: this is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read; originally posted on tumblr.

* * *

**WOLFHEART**

* * *

He always makes sure to be there when she wakes up-

Just as he always makes sure that he knows when she's transformed, whether she wants him to or not.

* * *

It takes him a while to find her, this time. Her first experience hunting on the lands around Musgrave Hall and she'd managed to slip away from him more thoroughly than he'd expected.

The panic he'd felt at this had rather taken him aback.

Eventually though, as he always does, he'd discovered her. Whether she'd known it or not, she'd made her lair in a spot which he had loved as a child, the old oak tree he used to climb, the better to torment Mycroft.

_He'd found her curled amongst its roots, looking like she belonged there._

And so, slowly, slowly now, he watches her open her eyes. Watches her stretch out, fingers uncurling, little toes twisting.

Her pupils are still lupine, her incisors still long.

Sunlight inches up her skin, warming her and beginning to drive the physical effects of her transformation from her body.

As always when he sees this, the sight takes his breath away.

* * *

"Sherlock..?" she asks softly, her voice not quite her own yet, and at his smile she crawls towards him. Lets out a breath like a sigh- he knows her muscles are sore- and without a word he opens his arms. Coaxes her closer. .

When he sees her eyes focus on him in recognition, he wraps the blanket in his hands around her shoulders and pulls her to him.

At the touch of the soft wool against her bare, dirt-streaked flesh she whimpers a little, the noise halfway between a human sound and that of her other self. He feels a pulse of pleasure go through him at the thought that he is tending to his mate; Rather than make her uncomfortable by drawing her attention to this however, Sherlock cuddles her to him, his back at the trusty old oak tree behind him, his Molly resting between his knees. She's still halfway into her other self and so she smiles. Slides her nose against his before growling, a low rumbling noise that quakes in her chest and does rather unspeakable things to his heartbeat.

"You like that?" he asks as he chaffs the blanket over her skin, trying to warm her up.

She nods, still not yet ready to use human speech.

Her eyes have closed and her smile is blissful.

"Mine," she says, and at least it's Molly's voice he hears, not the growl of a wolf, or its snarl.

"Always," he answers, wrapping his arms more tightly around her, and at this she giggles, the first truly human sound of the day.

He can't help the way it makes his heart soar.

"Food?" he asks, and at her nod he hooks the picnic basket with his foot, yanks it towards him. He offers her fruit. A thermos of coffee. Small bites of humanity, enough to call her back from the wildness of the full moon and bring her into his embrace again.

_When one loves a woman who's also a wolf, one must take one's humanity in small bites, he knows._

"Hungry," she says in answer, and as always she makes him feed her, small bites of apple and pear which she takes from his fingers with smiles both wicked and fond. Every so often she nips at his hand, her own sliding out of her blanket to press against his chest. His abdomen. Other, less polite, parts of his person.

The transformation makes her playful in more ways than one.

"Now, now, Molly," he says, and when she looks at him askance he gestures to their surroundings. "You might not mind it, but I'll catch cold. Remember the last time?"

Apparently she does, for she ceases her pouting. Leans into him, her nose brushing against his. She nips at his lower lip before kissing him; When he pulls back to look at her, her eyes are wide and solemn.

"Mine," she says again, and then, "Take care of you."

He nods. "You always take care of me, Molly."

She smiles at him, bright as sunlight, and the last of the wolf leaves her eyes.

* * *

When she's eaten her fill she curls up in his lap and promptly falls asleep.

The feel of her, warm and right and his, brings a corresponding sleepiness to Sherlock, and so he lets himself rest, drowsing in the heat of the rising sun.

When she wakes up once more, he knows that she'll be all the way back, all the way human again. She'll be embarrassed, as always, that she transformed in front of him, embarrassed that he had to come and fetch her. That he had to see her in her lupine state.

(She still thinks, unbelievably, that he fears her moon-wildness.)

But Sherlock does not mind it. He would never change her. And eventually, he tells himself, eventually she'll realise that it doesn't bother him. None of it does.

_A man who's won a wolf's heart shouldn't be so churlish as to complain of it._

After all, there's a diamond ring in his other jacket pocket, and it's destined for her finger.

At the thought of that- and another morning, doing this for Molly and a few little cubs of their own- Sherlock can't help but smile.

 


	7. New Division

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine; originally published on tumblr.

* * *

**NEW DIVISION**

* * *

He knows as soon as he hears the gun go off.

He doesn't need to feel the pain, sense the pavement smacking him between the shoulder blades as he's knocked back.

Greg doesn't need any of that-  _He knows he's in trouble._

It's raining, thick, heavy lashings of water falling from the heavens and he can feel it, the cold, creeping certainty that's he's not getting up from this. Not this time. Not now.

_He always knew it would end like this, deep down, and God help her but so did Christine_

From somewhere far away he can hear Sally yelling, calling for a medic even as Kavanagh continues on after the shooter, three of Scotland Yard's finest at his heels. Greg tries to move, tries to breathe, tries to shake his head and speak to her; He can dimly feel her holding his hand, telling him to stay with her, but he knows... He knows it's no use. _He wants to tell her it's ok but he can't make his mouth work._

There's a flash of lightning, a boom of thunder like the breath of a dragon and then-

He's standing.

No longer wet.

No longer shot.

No longer bleeding.

He doesn't understand it.

There's a man beside him in a black three-piece suit (sharp, expensive. Looks like the sort of thing Sherlock would wear.) He has long, steel-grey hair, tied back with a leather tong, and a long, black scarf covers his eyes, it too tied at the back. He stands straight. Stiff. Like a military man. There's something about him, something Greg finds familiar though he can't say precisely what; Though the rain is still lashing down from the heavens... It doesn't touch this man.

It doesn't touch either of them.

"Bloody Hell," Greg mutters under his breath and at this his companion smiles.

"Quite," he says, and then, "If you feel the need, pray swear further, my good man. It will help the process immeasurably."

"What process?" Greg asks and at this the other man smiles, a thin-lipped, wry thing which shouldn't look comforting and yet did.

 _Once again Sherlock Holmes springs to mind_.

"The process of letting go," the man says, and then, more gently, "the wench? Is she a sweetheart? Do you wish to look upon her one more time before our business begins?"

And he gestures to his left, where Sally... Sally is shaking a body which Greg recognises as his own-  _He was right about how badly injured he was_ \- and shouting. Calling him a git and a bastard and telling him he's not allowed die on her, telling him she won't go home and tell Christine she's not getting her husband back-

Like he's moving through a dream, Greg finds himself walking over to her. Staring down at her.

His blood is spattered over her jacket and she's breathing so hard.

There are tears streaming down her face and in all the long years he's known her, he's never before seen Sally Donovan cry.

Not thinking, he reaches out to her, tries to touch her shoulder, and his hand passes right through her, something which sets the most horrific coldness shuddering through him. "Better not," the blind-folded man says softly, suddenly at his side. "It doesn't do for our sort to to meddle with the living, Gregory."

"So I'm dead?" Greg asks calmly, and though he knows he should be terrified, he's not. He feels OK. He feels centred.

_He feels like he should probably be in an orange trauma blanket, but there isn't one about._

"Yes, you are," the blind-folded man says softly. Kindly. Though his eyes are covered, Greg can't help but feel that he's looking right at him. "You died in the line of duty, just as many of our brothers have before, Christ be blessed." He pats Greg's shoulder. "Alas, the perils of our profession change little, no matter how long we pursue them-"

" _Our_  profession?" Greg looks at him. He knows his tone is cynical. "So who are you, then?" he asks. "The Grim Reaper? Old Nick? The Ghost of Christmas Future?-"

"You future perhaps." And the other man holds his hand out to shake, his back impossibly, impeccably straight. Despite the fact that he doesn't know him from Adam, Greg takes his hand all the same. "Sir John Fielding," the man says quietly. "Magistrate of Bow Street and guardian of the City of London in perpetuity." He nods to a building beside them, a hazy, nearly-there edifice which Greg can't quite seem to focus on. "That was my office, when I was a living man," he's saying, "Number 4-"

"Bow Street Magistrate's Court," Greg supplies. It clicks into place then. "No wonder I thought you looked familiar."

And he shakes his head in wonder, remembering the portrait of Fielding which still hangs in Belgravia knick. The portrait of the man who set up London's infamous Bow Street Runners. It made sense, he supposed, that Fielding was here: The men of Bow Street had been the first professional police force London, the people who turned the profession of thief-taking from a corrupt enterprise that preyed on the vulnerable to an institution which protected them instead, the forerunners to the modern Met. Of course, they were still protecting the city.

And here he was, dead, apparently, and shaking hands with their founder.

 _Just when you think life can't get any weirder_... Greg thinks to himself, and then instantly wishes he had not.

 _It's not his life, after all, which is getting weirder,_ he reminds himself.

_Not anymore._

At this thought he feels his stomach twist, and a wave of nausea rises within him. "If you wish to retch, feel free to do so," Fielding tells him kindly. "You may no longer have stomach contents, but the indulgence is surprisingly efficacious, all the same." Another wry smile. "Then when you've bid farewell to the wench, come in and see me: I have an offer which I think you well suited for."

Greg looks at him, eyebrow cocked. Suspicious. "Oh?" he asks. "And what offer's that when it's at home?"

Though he cannot see Fielding's eyes, he nevertheless has the distinct impression they're twinkling right now.

Again, that wry smile tugs at his lip.

"Just an offer of employment," Fielding says casually. "For men like you and I, Gregory, there's little more satisfying than that- Believe me."

And with those words he straightens up. Starts walking towards his office, and still, _still,_  the rain doesn't touch him.

Greg wonders how he does it.

"Would I be helping people, in this job?" Greg asks, and at this Fielding nods.

"But of course," he says simply, and then enters his office. Closes the door behind him.

For a moment Greg Lestrade stares hard at his corpse, at his friend Sally, at the life and the city which he has always known, but then...  _Then..._

Then he follows Sir John Fielding into his office, the sound of Sally's tears echoing in the space left behind.


	8. The Other Tenant

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine; originally published on tumblr.

* * *

**THE OTHER TENANT**

* * *

In fairness, she only does it to the bad ones- No, to the  _really_  bad ones.

Junkies, tarts, the varied waifs and strays who always seem to flock to her door, those Martha leaves alone. She remembers what it was like to be young and vulnerable in the great city of London, and she remembers the things she had to do to survive it,

She'll not begrudge someone else the odd... miscalculation in trying to do the same.

But the bad ones- the ones which Sherlock brings to Baker Street, the ones he battles but does not quite defeat- those she does set her mind against.

And when Martha Hudson sets her mind against a thing, she does something about it.

So she'll invite these interlopers to Baker Street, play the sweet old lady.

Perhaps she'll let them think they've fooled her about their animosity towards her Baker Street Boys, or perhaps she'll let them think she's easily bought. Easily swayed.

_It's the thing about only seeing the bad in people: It makes you terribly simple to con._

And con them she does, with rare skill. After all, there's a reason she's survived this long, and it's not her baking talent.

Once she has their trust she'll sit them down in her parlour and give them tea. Biscuits. Her world-famous, mouth-watering brownies, with that oh-so-special ingredient, the one Greg, John and even Sherlock pretend they don't know about. If she's made the brownies properly the bastards won't even know what's hit them.

So they sup.

They enjoy.

They chat with her, and oh but sometimes they even let things slip, things to help Sherlock! Things to help the forces of law and order!

(In fairness, it's the last thing they'll ever let slip in this world, Martha will see to that).

Once they're incapacitated, she opens the door to her flat. Goes into the hall and then hauls open the trap-door by the cellar stairs. (It goes without saying that neither John nor Sherlock is ever at home for this bit. She doesn't think it would be good for them to see, though something tells her it wouldn't have bothered Mary).

Carefully, she lights the candle.

Carefully she says the incantation.

She hears the other tenant, slithering down there in the dark beneath Baker Street, (or in the light of a thousand stars, in R'lyeh, far away) and when she does, she tells him that there's a new sacrifice. A new offering.

At this point there's normally a flash of tentacles, a snatching of the soon-to-be-corpse from outside her flat's door.

The scream is usually quick, breathless, and then the trap-door's shut once again.

_It never takes more than thirty seconds between portal open and close._

Sometimes the sacrifice is awake but Martha prefers them out of it, because then she doesn't have to listen to the sounds. The pleas. The snap-crack-thwack of breaking bones. She doesn't have to see their faces, eyes open, or smell the stench that wafts up through the trap-door once the disturbance has passed. After all, she may understand why she's doing this (protection, appeasement, all the best things in life) but that doesn't mean she doesn't think it's horrible.

She knows it is. She's not a  _monster_.

Oh no, she's just a monster's landlady- And a bloody good one, at that.

If guilt raises its head, she reminds herself what happened the last time her other tenant got loose, back in her great-great-great-grandmother's day. Reminds herself of a city in flames, burnt nearly to ashes and not a body willing to speak of what had really caused it, or what was necessary to keep it from happening again. She doesn't speak of the Great Fire, or what it cost London. She doesn't speak of her family's calling, or what it's cost her.

No, most of the time she accepts life as it is. As it should be. She even lets herself be happy.

She has her home. Her boys. Her mission.

She'll always have her mission.

The other tenant's not her only care, she reminds herself sagely... But if she can save those she loves while serving it?

Well, what more can a landlady want than that?


	9. Fall Lazarus, For She Will Follow

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Originally posted on tumblr.

* * *

**FALL LAZARUS, FOR SHE WILL FOLLOW**

* * *

He doesn't remember, Molly has come to realise.

He's not faking, he genuinely doesn't remember.

He doesn't remember his fall. The Morgue. Doesn't remember bleeding out, lying in pieces on a gurney as she tries to put him back together.

He doesn't remember losing consciousness. His heart stopping. Doesn't remember her opening him up and replacing his organs- heart, liver, kidneys, bones crushed like seashells inside his flesh.

_He had been made over into all shrapnel and it had made Molly shudder._

* * *

He doesn't remember the machinery, Mycroft on his phone and she, hurrying about and stitching, stitching, stitching. Sewing together limbs, making jagged tears of flesh perfect. He doesn't remember the scalding white light of a lightning storm indoors, doesn't remember the things they took from Moran in order to give to him. (Molly is grateful for this.)

He doesn't remember them telling her that, whatever he may look like, he may never be the same again.

He doesn't remember how determined she was not to care, so long as  _something_  of him remained.

* * *

Molly was allowed to stay after she's finished, for no other reason than Mycroft thought that if Sherlock woke he would find her reassuring. Covered in blood, utterly spent, she had yet been seen as a symbol for safety. Peace.

"My brother trusts you," the elder Holmes had drawled, "and even if he didn't...

"Well, I'd fancy your chances against him when he's raving than I would fancy mine."

The words had frightened her but she still wouldn't abandon him; rather, Molly held his hand. Whispered to him. Coaxed him. He lay on that gurney for hours and she stayed with him all the while.

After all, even pieced together- piecemeal, fleshmeal- he was still her Sherlock, still the man she loved.

"It will be alright, you'll see," she whispered, lips close to his ear. "We'll make it alright, you see if we don't."

The room seemed nothing but echoes, the a scorching, hissing memory of an electrical storm, and all that was real was his hand in hers. All that was real was the work she had done. The way she had saved him.

She isn't a romantic, but she somehow feels she now has an Adam to his Eve.

* * *

He wakes up eventually, none the wiser. None the worse.

If he feels different, if he notices his fingers are now shorter, or his shoe size is different, it says nothing. (It's not like he keeps such unimportant information in his "hard-drive," anyway.)

When he opens his eyes he looks up at Molly and sees that she's been crying.

"Are those tears for me?" he asks, speech still a little slurred though from medication or the effect of having a new tongue, who can say?

Nevertheless, Molly nods. "Thought we'd lost you," she sniffs and at that he reaches a hand which wasn't always his out. Strokes the hair out of her face.

His smile is lopsided. Tender.

"I heard you," he says. "I heard you calling to me..."

He falls into sleep as if into the arms of a lover but she doesn't leave his side.

* * *

Within a week he's on his feet again and running after Moriarty's web.

Two years later he's back and living with John, with Mary. Living the life he once led, his fall like something from another life entirely.

He doesn't remember what she did, oh Molly knows he doesn't remember.

Whether that's a blessing or a curse, however, is not something she can decide.


	10. Keeping The Safety On

Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and on infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Another Halloween story, this time with a bit of a Sherlolly taste. It was supposed to be a little snippet, but then I realised that I was nominated for more than one category in the SAMFAs and, well, think of this as a thank you gift rather than a bribe. Thank you everyone, hope you like a little slightly NSFW fun!

* * *

**KEEPING THE SAFETY ON**

* * *

The most ridiculous thing is that it was Mycroft who warned him.

_Mycroft._

Mr. I-Feel-Nothing-And-Have-Never-Shagged-Anyone had to go and tell his little brother that, whatever his feelings for a certain petite, morbid, doe-eyed pathologist, he was just going to have to keep his hands- and any other wandering parts of his anatomy- to himself. That he was going to have to bite his lip and not even try anything, lest the dreaded Holmes Family Knack (TM) raise its ugly head once more in the gene-pool.

"You know it's for the best, Brother Mine," he said grandly, spooning sugar into his tea and smiling beneficently while Sherlock swore under his breath.

_He hated it when Mycroft might be right about a thing._

"Wouldn't want anything to happen to the dear little creature, now would we?" the elder Holmes continued, clicking his tongue. "Not after what happened with Great Aunt Millicent-"

"That's an old wives' tale," Sherlock said through gritted teeth- And indeed it was. There was no proof that Millicent's nature was the thing which had caused her beloved, hither-to healthy husband's heart-attack, at the age of 23.

_No proof, but definite suspicions._

"Are you willing to take a chance on that?" Mycroft countered silkily. "Are you willing to let your little morgue mouse take a chance on it?"

And of course, he'd known that Sherlock would not.  _He would never endanger Molly._

Which meant, of course, that he and Molly's interactions would remain chaste for the foreseeable future, something for which there was only one word.

_Drat._

At the silence Mycroft nodded his head, every bit as glacially elegant as The Queen, and then helped himself to a piece of lemon-cake. Another sip of tea.

"Keep it in your trousers, Brother Mine," he intoned. "You know it's best for everyone. And rest assured, for the sake of filial harmony, I won't mention Miss Hooper to Mummy."

Though Sherlock had severely doubted it was best for him, he had nevertheless discontinued their discussion on the subject.

* * *

 _It should have been easy,_  he thinks as he makes his way home from Mycroft's.

 _It shouldn't have been a problem_ - _Not at all._

After all, Sherlock has spent his entire youth merrily skipping from bed to bed and he'd never harmed anyone- Except, perhaps, for a couple of broken-hearts. Being born with a incubus' blood running through your veins was far from a difficulty. In fact, like all things fae and magical, it was often a bonus.

It made you healthier. Stronger. More difficult to kill.

(This latter was especially helpful in his chosen profession).

Not to mention that life was generally a great deal easier when one could simply sexually bamboozle someone to get one's way: Turn on the charm, then turn your detective skills.  _It worked almost ever time, and Sherlock knew it._  So, though he might never admit it, did Mycroft. Mummy. Even Eurus.

(Perhaps, especially, Eurus).

For the Gift of Kharis- the technical name for what he had- was not a thing which caused harm to anyone, at least not when it was used sparingly, as Sherlock did. The person you seduced got a night of absolutely brilliant, creative bonking out of it and you got a spiritual pick-me-up, the magical equivalent of a shot of adrenaline throughout your system, (though unlike adrenaline it could last for weeks.) It was dizzying. Delightful. Habit-forming-  _Not that Sherlock ever let anyone get into the habit of coming home with him-_

No, he went from partner to partner, each one a different taste, a different high. Each one a different experience.

Even when intoxicated, he'd been able to savour the pleasure of each and every hit.

And then, of course, he had to go and meet Molly.

Worse still, he had to go and fall in love with her, and she in love with him.

It was awful: Sherlock had tried- for about a half a second in the aftermath of Sherrinford- to pretend he didn't want her, but one kiss from the little imp had put paid to that. As soon as she's laid her lips on his he'd known that resistance was futile-  _No, resistance was asinine_. For there was nothing in the world which could rival being with her. No taste. No drug. No pleasure. No passion.

Molly was sweet.

Lovely.

Intoxicating.

Sexy as Hell and deliciously habit-forming by herself.

But she was also- and this  _was a_  problem- someone for whom he cared deeply. Incredibly deeply, he was beginning to realise. The thought of her being harmed during Sherrinford had driven him to the edge. She was someone whom he loved with all his heart, inhuman and fae as it sometimes was, and in taking her to bed, he wouldn't be just having sex, he'd be... He'd be engaging in intimacy. In loving. He'd be letting her close, letting her in, and that did present a problem when one had a condition like his.

For an incubus' blood is a hungry thing, and when faced with love, the real sort, the selfless sort... Sherlock feared it would run wild. Go out of control. He feared it would drain the lover dry and left them, at best, in a comatose state. At worst in a coffin. (Sherlock has had his fill of thinking of Molly and coffins).

So now he's stuck, he muses grimly as he gets off at Baker street. In love with a woman and terrified to show her. Afraid he'll hurt the one he loves by trying to show her how much he cares.

_It's ridiculous, Sherlock knows, but then he's always known he's a ridiculous creature at heart._

But what to do? he he asks himself bleakly. For now he's managing to keep her at bay with talk of taking things slowly and wanting to court her but eventually... Oh, eventually he's going to want to shag her. She's going to want  _him_ to shag  _her_. Perhaps, most dangerously, she's going to want to shag him, something he suspects will ruin any sense of control he manages to hold onto... The thought of giving in to her, giving himself over to her, is intoxicating, and at the mere notion he feels the incubus' blood inside him begin to clamour into life-

So here he is, he muses sourly as he enters his flat.

In love.

In lust.

Stuck between a rock and an (uncomfortably) hard place.

He spends the night, tossing and turning, Molly behind his eyelids and nothing but his own hand for comfort-

And just when he thinks this couldn't possibly get any more awkward... Well that, naturally, is when his Mummy comes to call.

* * *

"What has Mycroft told you?" he asks when she sits down before him.

Mrs. Hudson has brought up tea and biscuits but- having seen the look on Mummy Holmes' face she had promptly scarpered.

 _Wise woman_ , Sherlock can't help but think.

"I haven't been talking to Mikey, dear, I've been talking to darling Anthea," Mummy answers, breaking his line of thought and pouring herself and he some tea.  _So that explained her visit_ , Sherlock thinks. "She tells me one of your friends'- one of your female friends'- security levels has been upped- Clearance level Beta."

She shoots him a shrewd look. "That's higher, even, than mine."

Inwardly Sherlock swears: _Bloody Anthea!_

He knows where this is going, now.

"Look, Mummy," he begins, "I know you probably think that I'm up to something with Mo-" He catches himself just in time but not in time to stave off the grin Mummy shoots him. "With, I should say, with my friends, but I assure you everything is fine. Really. I know you are merely worried after Sherrinford, and the lying to you over Eurus and what have you, but I really can assure you i'm perfectly wonderful-"

"You're not wonderful," she said bluntly, putting down her teacup. "Nor are you anything near it." She looks at him, gaze boring into him, and he feels about five years old. "You're thinner than normal," she's saying, "you're pulse is elevated. And you appear to be uncomfortably hungry-"

At his attempt to speak over her she shakes her head. "Not for food, darling. For something else. Something... tastier."

Her voice drops on this last statement, her raised eyebrows adding to its weight.

Her meaning is implicit, and immediately Sherlock turns red.

 _Oh dear God_ , he finds himself thinking.  _She can't mean to discuss- He's not having this talk with his mother!-_

"It's alright, you know," she's saying kindly, patting his knee. Somehow that makes it more mortifying. "There's no shame in it: We all have our wants and needs, perhaps our kind more than most."

"Our kind?" Sherlock snaps, discomfort making him sharper than usual. "And just what would you know about "our kind,"?"

The look his mother shoots him is unimpressed. He has been on the receiving end of it many times since he was born. "I have been married for more than forty years, dear boy," she says severely. "In that time, I have managed to have three children, a husband, and more sex than you can shake a stick at, all without harming a soul." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Can you say the same, hmm?"

Sherlock frowns though, too confused to defend himself. He'd always assumed his mother wasn't-  _The fae blood couldn't run through her, it couldn't._ How could his mother, his brilliant, batty, supremely  _faithful_ mother, be afflicted with the Holmes' Family Knack (TM) and have managed to remain married to Daddy? Without, you know, killing him?

"You're-" He's not sure how to phrase it: how, precisely, does one ask whether one's mother is a sexual energy vampire?

"I am like you," she says, apparently taking pity on him when the words don't come. He blinks at her as she says it. "I married your father knowing what I was," she continues, more gently. "I told him, I assure you: Full disclosure, which is what I suggest for your girl too. But we got through the fear of hurting him together, just as you will with this girl of yours."

Sherlock can't believe what he's hearing. "But how could you- How could you risk it?" he asks quietly."How could you bring yourself to endanger Daddy like that?"

Her smile is kind. "Darling boy," she says, "when the love is real, there's no risk, not of that in any way. The danger comes from your heart being broken, your courage wavering. It comes from the fear of losing what you have. But in a bed, in a relationship, creatures like us can be trusted- Even when we think we can't."

Again she pats his knee comfortingly.

"And also, in case you haven't worked it out yet, with the love of your life the sex is  _remarkable_."

"So..." Sherlock tries to sort through what she's telling him and unwilling to touch  _that_  statement with a ten foot barge pole. "So you're saying that your feelings for Daddy... protected him, somehow?"

She nods. "Just as your feelings for this friend of yours will protect her too."

He frowns. "I didn't know it worked like that."

She squeezes his hand tightly, giving him a reassuring smile. "Would I lie to you?" she asks, and Sherlock must allow that she's right. She's a lot of things, his mother, but dishonest isn't one of them.

Which means, he thinks with dawning glee, that he and Molly might be a lot less doomed than he'd thought...

* * *

She comes to see him that night in Baker Street, and as soon as she opens the door he knows Mummy was right.

The puff of joy in his heart- and other, less polite, parts of his body- tells him that whatever it is between he and Molly, it's not something dangerous.

 _Not if it feels like this_.

The flat is festooned in candles, something delicious (and made by Mrs. Hudson) baking in the oven. As soon as she enters he takes her coat. Hangs it up. She turns to him, expecting one of their usual, chaste pecks but instead he wraps his arms around her. Kisses her thoroughly. _It feels bloody marvellous._

By the time they break apart his hair is all over the place and her breathing is laboured, her cheeks pinked.

_She looks gorgeous._

"What was that for?" she asks breathlessly, and at the question he pours her a glass of wine, motions to the sofa. "I've been thinking," he says quietly.

Her eyes are so soft in the candlelight, she makes his mouth water.

"About what?" she asks, and then, cheeks darkening, "about... Us?"

He nods. Gestures again to the sofa.

"You..." The blush gets worse but she perseveres. "Do you want to, um, you know... "

"I want you to come here, Molly," he says, and at the certainty of his tone she nods. Proceeds to move to the sofa with almost comical speed, something which makes him smile at her fondly. She tries to sit but, careful to put her wine aside, he grabs her suddenly and playfully pulls her into his lap, his arms locked about her.

She squeals a little and laughs, squirming against him and shooting him a mock-pouting look.

"You're up to something," she says.

This time his grin is gleeful.

"Always," he says and when she swats at him playfully he kisses her once again.

This kiss is longer, much longer, and as it goes his fae blood wakes. Warms. It's begging to cut loose. He can already feel the high of Molly's energy seeping into him, a soft, warm thing that suffuses his body and makes his senses sing.

She's eager and responsive, so responsive; As the kiss deepens she shifts, straddling him and kissing him more wildly, her hands pulling at his hair. Tugging his head this way and that. She makes the most gorgeous little sounds at the back of her throat as she does. At this- one of his favourite things- he lets out a hiss before sliding his hands inside her shirt, her bare skin warm and delicious against his palms, the scrape of her bra but a momentary distraction as he pops it open and then slides his palms, unencumbered, along the soft expanse of her back, then, with more gentleness, across the underside of her breasts-

When they pull apart she's gasping, eyes starry and lips swollen.

Sherlock's cock is growing hard, pressing into her, and when she looks down at him he can't help his grin.

"Gosh," she says, and then, when she realises how that sounds, "bloody hell." She looks at him. "What's gotten into you this evening?"

"You." And Sherlock smiles at her rakishly, his worries slowly fading. Just to be sure he runs his fingers along her wrist. Takes her pulse and looks her over.  _He can feel the connection to her opening up, but it's not stealing anything of hers for him_. Her heartbeat's skittish, elevated, but not in a dangerous way. Her eyes are bright and electric, she's clearly not being hurt by him at all. No, no she looks eager and happy. Relieved too, perhaps, that he seems as eager as she for something he'd previously seemed reluctant about.

"But what's all this  _for_?" she asks breathlessly, and at that he pulls her to him. Kisses her again.

"It's for you," he says truthfully. "Well, for me too, obviously. I've been thinking of doing that for a long time, but-"

"Buuut..?"

He smiles at her, the lopsided smile that he knows she likes. "But I was a bit... scared, before today," he says softly. "I've... I've taken from people before. I don't want to take from you, Molly."

_He knows that's a euphemism, a skirting of the truth, but for the time being it's the best he can do._

She sighs though, leans into him and presses a kiss to his Adam's apple. "Don't you know there's nothing you'd want that I wouldn't willingly give?" she asks him, and at this he has to smile. Nod.

_In his heart he's known that for a very long time._

"I'm starting to understand that," he allows, "but Molly..." He looks down at her, wondering again how much he should tell her tonight, How much he should explain to her. It is, after all, quite something to tell the love of one's life that one is actually not, entirely, human.

"Hush," she says, seeing his hesitancy. "We'll talk about it tomorrow- I promise, we will. But first kiss me again, would you?" Again, that gorgeous, starry look comes into her eyes. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but you're really bloody good at it."

And with a laugh Sherlock leans down, for once in his odd, eccentric, wild life happy to comply with a request.

Molly wraps him in her arms and, well, the night... expands from there.

* * *

He'll her eventually, having danced around it for weeks.

He'll have a clipboard, and some cuttings from a nineteenth century book on demonology, and just to make certain she understands, he'll offer to bring in some of the people he's been with before, or even some of his relatives.

(Perhaps understandably, this does not go down well).

She'll refuse to believe him at first, until she gets a proper demonstration, so to speak. And then she'll stare at him in awe for about two solid minutes before taking him into his bedroom and shagging him quite silly.

This will set the standard for most of their interactions regarding his fae heritage, and oh but it makes Sherlock glad.

They'll spend Christmas that year at his parents and Mummy looks remarkably smug as she's carving the turkey.


	11. U Are Here

_Disclaimer_ : This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are min. A small nod to the Napoleon of Crime, since everyone gets their spooky story... Warning for some swearing and a lot of elitist, city-girl insults to those who come from a rural background. (Moriarty's accent tells you that he's from a rather posh part of Dublin called D4 and I've run with that here).

For those wondering,  _Séimí_ is a common diminutive of  _Séamus_ , the Irish version of the name _James_.  _Peadar_  is a common Irish version of  _Peter_. Enjoy.

* * *

**U ARE HERE**

* * *

"Show me your tongue, there, Séimí- I need to make sure you've swallowed your meds."

Jamie turns.

Looks at His Personal Idiot and slowly, slowly, opens his mouth.

He stretches his tongue out before tipping it up and running it over his teeth, lips pulling back into the sort of smile that makes all clever people nervous.

His Personal Idiot, however, merely rolls his eyes.

"Thank you for your interest, Séimí, but I have a boyfriend," he says in that bogger, pig-shagging Kerry accent of his, one massive, shovel-like hand raking through his grey hair, the other at his hip.

_It makes Jamie snicker to see how easy this redneck is to rile._

So he smiles more widely. Closes his mouth and makes show of leaning back into his chair. Folding his hands behind his head. He starts whistling "A Nation Once Again," since he knows it sets his carer there's teeth on edge.

It works.

His Personal Idiot narrows his eyes at him, prompting Jamie to blow the bloody culchie a kiss. After all, they can make him take the medication, but they can't make him believe the nonsense they tell him, anymore than they can make him stay here once he decides he'd rather be off-

All he needs to do is get healthy, he reminds himself, and then this kip will be nothing but a hole in his wake. A smoking,  _fire-ravaged_  hole, if he has his way.

His Personal Idiot doesn't seem to comprehend this though. Not given the languishing, martyred sigh he lets out. The long-suffering way he eyes Jamie, as if he were a mother with a particularly recalcitrant child.

"It's not working, is it?" he asks. "The medication? You still think you're James Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime, don't you?"

Jamie shoots him a coy look. "Of course not!" he says, feigning outrage. This time His Personal Idiot rolls his eyes. "I am taking my medication and working through all my problems! Why, I might even go out there and become a care-worker, like you, Peader! Give something back to the world, etc etc-"

He smiles.

"After all, I  _am_  down with the kids."

His Personal Idiot- Peader- snorts at this.

"The only thing you'll ever give to the world is a case of chlamydia."

Jamie snorts. "Oh, you don't mean that, Paddy darling, do you?"

A muscle in His Personal Idiot's jaw tightens.  _Direct hit!_ Jamie thinks gleefully, getting to his feet.

"You know my name isn't Patrick," Peadar growls.

Jamie snorts. "Sorry-  _Paddy_ ," he says, and his tone sounds not a bit of it. He makes sure to stand just a bit too close to His Personal Idiot for comfort. "Just too hard to keep you sheep-shaggers straight, y'know?"

Another devilish smile.

"You all look alike to me- Like sheep."

At this though, his Personal Idiot smiles.

Leans down- he's a great deal bigger than Jamie- and puts his face in his.

"There's plenty like me, Séimí," he says, "And I suppose we're hard to tell apart for the likes of you. But then there's plenty like you as well." This time  _his_  smile is mocking. This time it's  _his_  turn to grin. "You think you're the first Dublin wanker I've dealt with, boyo? You think you're the first D4 eeijit I've met who thinks he's more important than he is?"

Peadar sneers.

"Please! You're here because you had a breakdown, my fine lad," he says. "You're here, because- despite what you claim- you're not some big time criminal mastermind the Brits are scared of. You're just a normal little arsehole with a normal little sob story. Daddy gone, Mammy drunk, money not enough to keep you out of here and wah, wah, wah you got yourself into a spot.

"You're not a monster,  _Séimí,_ you're a fuck-up. One of those sad little boys who has everything handed to him and still couldn't make the cut."

Peadar smiles again.

It is not a pleasant sight.

"So you keep telling yourself how important you are, Séimí," he says. "The rest of us know the truth- Which is that you're nothing at all."

And with that he leaves, head high, expression smugly satisfied..

For a split second Jamie stares after him, hands clenched into fists, heart beating like a hammer.  _Nobody bloody talks to him like that!_  And then, without warning he's on his feet, he's picked up the chair he was sitting on, takes it by one leg and hurls it across the room.

He grins as it smacks against the door to his cell with an almighty din.

He expects Peadar- his Personal Idiot- to come inside at the racket; after all, when he was in Mycroft Holmes' custody the Brits pissed themselves if he so much as twitched. Nothing happens though, no calls, no notice, no panic and as he registers this something slithers in his head, something niggling. Something he's felt before. A serpent he usually keeps at bay but which is getting closer and closer with every interaction.

_What if he's right?_  this serpent whispers.

_What if everything- Seb, The Ice Man, The Virgin, Eurus, what if they're all a figment of your mind? A symptom of your illness?_

_What will you do then?_

_Who will you be, then?_

As always when he thinks like this Jamie pushes the thoughts away, turns back towards his books and his bed. He knows who he is and he knows what he's achieved, he reminds himself forcefully. That sheep-shagging bollix can fuck right off.

So he turns off his cell light and beds down, determined to bide his time until he breaks out of here...

The uncertainty lingers, however, a serpent in his brain, though he might not admit it to a soul.

* * *

_Meanwhile, somewhere else. Somewhere unseen.._.

"Peadar," shakes herself loose.

Discards the disguise which she's been wearing.

It's a thorough one: height, weight, nationality, gender, all have been changed to make sure the illusion perpetuated is convincing to the man who was once the Napoleon of Crime.

_Given how much Moriarty knew of her in life, it's best not to give herself away._

At her side a being, older by far than she and astonishingly more powerful, smiles at her. Holds out her payment. "For you, Rosamund," he tells her.

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "My name is Mary, Belial."

The older being laughs, a horrid, ugly thing. "A name is not so easy to shake off as a disguise, my dear," he tells her. Nevertheless, he passes her the payment, a box of light and dark, emblazoned with a single sigil, the symbol for  _Family._

She takes it and holds it tenderly to her chest.

"I've made a good start," she tells him. "Your boys can take it from here. Let me know if you need anymore advice in dealing with Short Arse there: I'm sure Michael can spare me." She gives a sharp, dangerous smile. "It's not like this is out of my wheelhouse, after all."

And with that she leaves the way she came in, a flash of light and feathers in a world of smoke and flame.


	12. The Lady With The Lamp

_Disclaimer_ : This fanfiction is not written for profit and on infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

* * *

**THE LADY WITH THE LAMP**

* * *

 

_1895_

He starts seeing her, in the months after the funeral.

A creature like Mary, and yet unlike her. A woman who might be his wife and yet surely is not.

Doctor John Watson sees her, and he wonders if he is going mad.

For she wears her hair indecently short, as his darling wife never would have. (For all her interest in women's suffrage his Mary was a lady).  _This_  woman though, she strides around in pantaloons, and men's shirts, her head uncovered. Her confidence almost mannish.

_She is clearly unchaperoned too, her free ways the sort of thing which seem utterly scandalous, even to he._

And she seems to have absolutely no sense of discretion either, gawping at him when he catches her eye, be it at the end of a corridor, or unexpectedly, through a window, or behind his reflection in a mirror-

It makes him feel utterly discomfitted. Utterly heartbroken.

_And strangely guilty, as if looking at this woman were somehow an infidelity to the memory of the wife he's just lost._

For she calls out to him, familiarly, her voice just like his Mary's.

She uses his Christian name to call to him, when they haven't even been formerly introduced and he is still wearing the black clothes of full mourning.

In fact, she seems oddly desperate to talk to him, whenever she spies him: she moves towards him, frowning as if she is looking at a horror, or a fever-dream. Always coming closer, head cocked to the side. A firearm sometimes in her hand, or something else, a thin slab of light which looks almost like a lamp-

A lamp, or a book, he cannot tell which.

She looks at it sometimes, or holds it up before him as if trying to show him its cover, but the light it emits makes it too bright to see clearly...

He doesn't tell Holmes about it, of course he doesn't, for the poor blighter is already heartbroken for the loss of their girl. He doesn't know how the detective would cope with him seeming to loose his mind as well.

So he keeps quiet, even though he keeps seeing her.

He doesn't know what else to do- But then a soldier wouldn't, would he?

* * *

_2017_

For a split second Mary feels the bullet enter body.

She feels it before the pain comes.

_She's been shot before in the line of duty, and each time it had felt like this._

And then Agony lights up behind her eyes, hissing through her body like an angry river. A fiery thing, not the dull ache of a body injured but the panicked shriek of a body in full-throttled cry. There's water everywhere, on her. On Sherlock. Glass sparkles and glints all around her. She's lying in his arms, she can feel him shaking and she's scared, she's so scared, but she knows he's scared too and somehow that makes it better, it makes it easier, to have him here with her-

"Mary Watson was the only life worth living," she tells him. She tells John. (The other members of her strange little unit have to understand, they have to know why she has done this).

She can feel the blood pumping out of her, the strength.

The heat.

She'll never see her little girl grow up and Christ but that thought stings.

Nevertheless, her eyes close and though she knows it's probably for the last time, she's not scared of it, she's not...

 _This is a good death,_ she tells herself.

_This is a better death than I thought I'd get..._

She swims in darkness for a moment, or an eternity, she's not sure, and then... Then...

* * *

It's the light Watson sees.

The light of that little lamp of hers.

He sees it at the end of a lane off Gower Street, its faint glow so conspicuous that immediately he turns into the dank street. Approaches her.

She is covered in water, sopping wet, and her clothes are covered in blood.

Nevertheless she is sitting up, looking at him, when he kneels down in front of her.

"John..?" she asks, her voice weak, and then, looking more closely at him. "For God's sake John, why are you dressed like that?" She shakes her head. "Is that moustache even real?"

And she gestures limply to his bowler hat, his greatcoat and suit, as if her own apparel weren't entirely ridiculous. (She's practically naked).

Up close she is indeed the image of his Mary, and though Watson knows he should find the thought upsetting he does not.

Rather he holds out his hands to her, helps her wobble to her feet. She touches her shoulder, frowning, as if there's something missing there, and then, belatedly, she seems to remember the lamp in her hand; She flicks it closed-  _so it is like a book_!- and she tucks it into her inside jacket pocket. Looks at him.

"Where the Hell am I?" she asks.

For a moment Watson is silent, unable to speak past the knot in his throat- she even sounds like his late wife, sweet Lord- but then he finds his voice. Offers her his arm.

"You are in London, Madam," he tells her. "The year is 1895."

Her eyes widen at him momentarily but then she shakes his head to herself. Straightens her spine.

Again, it occurs to Watson, how much she looks like his late wife.

"Take me to Baker Street," she says quietly. "That's where you were going, isn't it?"

Watson frowns at her. "Actually, that's where I was leaving, Miss..?"

"Rosamund," she says. "You should call me Rosamund."

He says the word and it settles on his tongue like an endearment.

She takes his arm and lets him lead her into the streets and into a hansom, and though he knows it should feel odd, it doesn't. Not at all.

A small, sorrowing smile flits across her face and then it's gone, swallowed up by the London night.  


End file.
